Burn It Down
by fleur-de-lis du paris
Summary: Bad friends make bad drinking partners, and France and Prussia have always had an interesting relationship. A drunken fistfight offers a snapshot of their balance between the fiery emotions of love and hate; the friendship of a soldier and the man who would be king. GEN OneShot. Warnings for Violence, Language, Alcohol.


****Well. This fic was based on a smidget of an RP done back in October of last year, and while the actual conversation may have lasted about thirty minutes, it took several hours to turn it into a real story.

Prussia's part was originally written by the author **Flashback 1701**, who is a fantastic author. I would highly recommend you to go look at her stories.

**Necessary background information:** Francis and Gilbert are nations. Ancient immortals who like to go drinking together, and who are much more than the silly, stereotypical characters seen in the show. Francis is also good friends with Ludwig, which causes some stir of jealousy with Gilbert, who has a rough time adjusting to just being the drunkard in the basement. At this point in our timeline, Gilbert was struggling with alcoholism, and both myself and other admin were pretty stressed. This is actually the second major drinking/fighting RP we did- the first one is a bit too long for me to have ready to post yet.

If there are words in other languages? Translate it yourself, nothing is so complicated that Google Translate won't serve.

Title of the fic was taken from the song (with the same name) by Linkin Park. I would recommend listening to it before/during reading if you aren't already familiar with it.

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**Warnings: **Heavy profanity (several f-bombs), alcoholism, implied yaoi, and a good deal of violence. Anyone under 14? _Get out now. _

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**Burn it Down**

It hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Francis and Gilbert had gone drinking, as was their custom. Rather than head out to a bar, they'd simply grabbed various liquor bottles, (Gilbert had brought his own beer as well as raided the majority of Francis' alcohol cabinet) and gone out walking and talking to each other. As always, their conversation was liberally peppered with petty arguments and crass insults as the two men slowly became more intoxicated.

Francis had noticed his friend seemed a bit off—his insults lacked the peculiar pop and sting that made them so effective. The Prussian man seemed almost vibrating with some unspoken tension; it was nearly palpable under his exterior of precise, military calm.

The Frenchman was aware that his friend had been frustrated of late—the stress of his odd non-existence, his relationship with his brother, and his growing distaste for some of his own habits seemed to be wearing greatly on the man.

It was never really a conscious plan—but Francis was always aware that the old soldier felt better after a good scuffle…something about the adrenaline and thrill of a fight seemed to be cathartic for the man. While the blond liked neither war nor pain, he did often bait the man simply for the purpose of starting a fight to serve as stress relief. After all, what were old friends and on-off enemies for?

If he was completely honest, Francis didn't mind the fights. The last few decades had been forcibly clean to the point of being sterile, and for an immortal that had spent his entire life fighting and killing for mere survival, the enforced calm and cleanliness of the twenty-first century grated sometimes.

Perhaps it had been the liquor clouding his mind. Due to centuries of drinking, the blond had an amazing tolerance for wine, but he also had the sneaking suspicion Gilbert had slipped him something… everything seemed a bit too mellow for him to be just tipsy. His balance had been affected, and he was swaying a bit as they walked.

Later on, Francis would reflect that his judgment had probably been rather impaired. Nonetheless, when their argument devolved, the Frenchman recognized the opening, and didn't hesitate to push.

"Lovable, is hardly a word I would use to describe you, mon ami." His voice lilted with a soft slur as he looked over at his companion.

"I so totally am!" Gilbert protested, his own voice loud with inebriation.

"That depends on who you are with." Francis snarked back, though the comment was milder than others he was tempted to make.

" 'S not true! I'm always lovable. Everyone loves me~. " Gilbert grinned wildly, eyes glinting in the low light.

Francis crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow to display how little he was impressed.

"That's a damn lie. Some people—you wouldn't even _want _to have love you."

"Yeah? Doesn't change the fact that they do!"

The Frenchman raised one finger, enunciating the one word precisely.

"Roderich."

"….He doesn't count." Gilbert grumbled, pouting.

"You cannot use an absolute then," snorted Francis.

"Yeah well…" Gilbert paused, shooting his companion a dangerous look. "Some of us haven't 'loved' practically everyone like others of us."

The comment stung, and Francis scowled deeply. His ways were well known to the nations (simply because he had, actually, slept with most of them). However, the Frenchman was currently in a committed relationship, and for once in a very long time, truly in love. He'd made great attempts to clean up his act, curbing most of his vices save liquor, and limiting even that. Being reminded of things he now regretted deeply pricked at the man, causing an immediate spike of anger.

"Don't." He glared at the man beside him, his tone icy.

"Why not?" Gilbert mocked. "I touch a nerve?"

The Frenchman was revealingly quiet—he had, and they both knew it.

"Oh, right, I'm sorry. I forgot Mr. Domestic Living's gotta keep up his image for the boyfriend." Gilbert spat, his expression unpleasant. "Tch."

Francis gritted his teeth, "He knows. And don't you dare make this about him." His voice softened slightly. "He knows perfectly well enough…"

"Then what's wrong~?" Gilbert goaded.

The Frenchman snarled softly. "Has it ever crossed your mind that perhaps I don't _enjoy _remembering it?"

"Yeah, well…maybe I don't enjoy being reminded that no one gives three shits for me, alright?"

Francis paused, picking up on the deep bitterness in the man's voice, his own irritation fading for a moment.

"…Not no one. I told you, you can't use absolutes."

"You know what I mean." Gilbert growled, shooting the other a dirty look.

"And you know what I mean." Francis returned the look, blue eyes sharp.

"Actually? I don't. And y'know what? I don't give a damn."

"Non?" Francis raised an eyebrow mockingly.

"Nein. And don't you look at me like that, you son of a bitch."

Francis sneered softly. "I shall look at you any way I wish."

"You've always been like that, haven't you?" Gilbert's fists clenched at his sides, his teeth bared as he snarled. "You think you're _so _goddamned wonderful, you fucking swine! Gott, I just wanna destroy your smug-ass face!" He was breathing harder now, crimson eyes blazing in fury.

"You're the one people love! You've got the fucking charm, the elegance and that bullshit…" He paused. "You're, like, Roddy 2.0, y'know that?!"

Francis scowled deeply.

"I'm impressed. Here I was thinking you couldn't get any more insulting." He glared at the man darkly. "Comparing me to that…that ass?"

"Lemme think." Gilbert's eyes narrowed. "Cold, manipulative, arrogant, doing all that cultured fuckery that doesn't do shit on a battlefield? Yeah, you're about the same."

Francis gave a twisted, sardonic smile.

"Well then. Good to know I'm appreciated."

The Prussian reached out, smacking the Frenchman, wanting to escape his self-righteous sneer. Francis snarled, his hand flying to a rapidly reddening cheek.

"Fine. You know what Gilbert? Fucking. _Fine." _He turned to face the other head on, face cold.

"You hate him, you hate me—so just go ahead and let it out." He opened his arms, exposing his body. "All that frustration, all that hate—I'll even give you a free punch."

His voice was no longer silken, now a furious growl. "But don't you ever _dare _say I'm like him. He wouldn't put up with you after a stunt like this."

"Maybe I'm sick to hell of being someone everyone has to put up with! Ever think of that!?" His voice raised, just as furious as the blond. "And don't you goddamn tell me not to use absolutes!"

Francis gave a sick grin, eyes flashing as he purposefully baited the man, drawling silkenly.

"Don't. Use. Absolutes."

Gilbert didn't hesitate, hurtling forwards. He feinted a right hook before dropping his shoulder into the other man's low abdomen, tackling him over with ease. Francis coughed, snarling breathlessly as he crashed heavily onto the ground. He was still for a moment, stunned from the impact to the back of his head. The moment of weakness wasn't ignored, and Gilbert pulled his fist back, burying it into the Frenchman's unguarded face. He placed a second blow in his windpipe, and a third across his nose.

The Prussian worked silently, emotionlessly. He let the anger glint around the edges of his conscious behavior like the orange edges of burning coals. All the fury, all the frustration that tormented the man balled in his scarred fist, the emotions transforming into raw, brutal energy as he pounded his best friend's face in.

Francis couldn't think, couldn't move—couldn't _breathe _due to the blow that had nearly collapsed his throat. He gasped and flailed like a dying fish, struggling unsuccessfully against the harsh blows.

Gilbert seized him up by the hair, fisting his hand in the long blond locks. He glared at the other's rapidly swelling eyes, the man below him thrashing as he tried to get loose and whining softly in pain.

"…Sometimes, I hate you." The Prussian growled softly, his voice almost a murmur.

Francis pried a stinging eye open, gasping for enough breath to make himself heard.  
"O-only…sssomtimesss?"

"Yeah. Only sometimes. God says you're s'posed to love your neighbor, right?" Gilbert smirked joylessly. " 'Less he's a goddamned Austrian."

The paler man released his grip and spat to the side, still straddling the bloodied Frenchman's chest. The blond hissed in pain as his head knocked against the ground again, causing the pain behind his eyes and nose to throb even more intensely.

"Even my …my closest king favored your sorry ass over me. Y'know?" Gilbert huffed, still glaring at the man.

Francis paused, gathering a breath, before giving a dark, bitter laugh.

"Y-you….seriously….pounded m-my face in…" He wheezed for breath, the sound harsh. "B'cause …you've got…daddy issues?" He mocked the other weakly. "Oh, my king didn't love me~." He glared up at him.

"Boo. Fucking. Hoo." He grunted. "Jealous bitch."

Gilbert's face was emotionless as he grabbed the other man's hair once more, slamming his head into the ground roughly. The Frenchman gave a soft keening cry of pain, his eyes rolling up into his head. Blood covered his entire face, leaking from his nose and mouth and matting into his hair.

"No, but he did." Gilbert spoke softly, ignoring him.

"…You had everything he wanted, you fuck. Culture, language, romance…all I had was his father's military and the memory of his murdered lover."

The Prussian probably could have continued—the deep bitterness was the result of a very old slight. However, more words would be useless, for the Frenchman was no longer listening. Francis' only thought was trying not to pass out from his blood going in all the wrong places, and none of the right.

Gilbert looked down, taking in the man's condition. His anger faded somewhat at the utterly pathetic looking Frenchman, and he moved to get off his chest. The silver haired man shifted, hauling his friend up to his feet with an arm around his shoulder.

"C'mon, jackass. You look like hell."

Francis gave a quiet groan, leaning heavily on the other.

"S-sstill prettier…th'n you." He spat a wad of blood and phlem on the ground, groaning again.

Gilbert ignored the mangled comment, beginning to drag the other back to his house. "Shut up 'n walk. Let's get you home, 'n cleaned up."

He received an unintelligible bit of muttered French in reply that sounded like something rude.

"You've gotta stop goading me like that, man…" Gilbert murmured softly. "You know this is what happens."

Francis grunted, trying to speak through the mess of snot, tears, and blood on his usually pristine face.

" 'S…intentional. Y' feel better, after you've been angry."

"Well…yeah, I do," Gilbert paused. "But you still manage to make me feel bad kicking your ass in for it."

Francis snorted softly, trying to laugh. "What're friends for?"

The Prussian shook his head, snorting. "Yer messed up in the head man…"

"Mm…'n whose fault is that, hein?" He retorted, though the bickering half-hearted at best.

The two men fell into silence broken only by grunts of effort and the occasional whine of pain from the Frenchman. They eventually stumbled home, going through a now familiar routine of shedding filthy clothing, cleaning and patching wounds, and eventually making it into bed to try and sleep as long as possible before the agony the morning's hangover would bring.

The scene wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Truthfully, neither was the argument. Francis and Gilbert had always fought, and most likely they always would. It was the way their relationship worked, (Antonio managed to balance out their personalities when they were together as a trio together, but when any two of them were alone, history and temperaments inevitably clashed). Francis and Gilbert would always be bad friends. There were too many years of past violence and rivalry behind them for the two stubborn men to get along smoothly. When their friendship built up again into something relatively peaceful, they still teased each other mercilessly. When events in the world brought their nations to war against each other, they fought brutally, but never enough to truly destroy the other, hindered by the memories of past camaraderie. It was the way they worked. And for Francis and Gilbert, that was good enough.

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Comments are lovely darlings, they help me not make mistakes in my next fic write-up.

Au revoir~


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